


sens dessus dessous

by smithens



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Friendship/Love, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-14 19:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7186961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the early April of 1832, Joly returns to Paris from his hometown with an important task. His companions greet him warmly; the city of Paris greets him with rising political unrest, a cholera epidemic, and more complications than he had bargained for.</p><p>It is fortunate, then, that he has as dear a friend as Lesgle de Meaux to help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eglantine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eglantine/gifts).



> For Les Jours D'été 2016. The prompt was:
>
>> I would like to see [Joly and Bossuet] getting to engage in actual political action. Smuggling pamphlets? Meeting revolutionary contacts? Trying to decide where to hide some rifles? It can certainly be funny and hijinks-y, but I'd just love to see more of these two getting to act like the revolutionaries they are.
> 
> Thank you to my cheerleaders for your ceaseless encouragement and/or suggestions and/or reality checks! This wouldn't be how it is without you both - you know who you are.
> 
>  
> 
> Eglantine, I hope you enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> _Title is from Les Misérables, V4, B12, C2: Preliminary Gaieties - in the French text, Bossuet says, "Qui est-ce qui se douterait que Paris est sens dessus dessous?" ("Who would suspect that Paris is topsy-turvy [upside down]?") when commenting on the quiet of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, compared to the rest of Paris._

After a turbulent ride in a post-chaise, a quarrelsome conversation with his mistress in his own bedchamber, and a narrowly avoided encounter with a constable on his way, Joly felt he was well entitled to a pause in the corridor between the Café Musain proper and its back room. To sit was a much needed moment of respite, and if he closed his eyes and curled into himself, neither the dust nor the brick bothered him.

At the inn in Auxerre he had been anxious to embark further for Paris and to share the details of his visit to his hometown with his fellows. At his arrival in the city but three hours ago he had found himself longing already to return to the fresh air and clean rain he had known in Privas. (Were Joly to describe Parisian rain, it would be to denounce its miasma rather than to laud its cleanliness; certainly he would never desire to go out and about in it when he could alternately stay inside. In Privas, the case was opposite.) Musichetta's demeanor had done nothing to assuage his exhaustion, and certainly the carpet bag he'd been defending since Lyon did not help the matter. A week ago it was an intriguing surprise. Today he looked forward to being done with it.

Thus, though he preferred an afternoon nap in his bed to a brief rest in a musty hallway, the trek - even assisted by omnibus - from the Latin Quarter to Les Halles and back had tired him such that to postpone visiting his friends for just a few minutes more seemed not at all a sin.

Unfortunately, even with his head against his knees, he was able to sense a light in the hallway. The urge to lean into his luggage at the bright intrusion was only just weak enough that he resisted it; he opted instead to adjust against the wall.

"Good afternoon, Joly," came a voice.

Yet even this repose was interrupted.

He supposed it was with good reason, knowing that the floor could not host him forever. At the words, he straightened, took his spectacles from his greatcoat pocket to put them on his face, and opened his eyes with clarity restored.

The source of the light was a candle, and outside of his head it did not seem very bright at all.

Joly blinked.

"Good afternoon to you, Feuilly," he said, rising to his feet. With one hand he brushed the dust from his coat, and with the other he reached above his head, stretching, then switched.

Feuilly raised his candle in a sort of salute, his expression reserved but warm, as was typical for him. Even so tired as he was, Joly could not help but smile in response. He dropped his arms. The familiarity of this friendship was enough to ease his mood for now.

"You are overdue."

"I was delayed in Lyon."

With that, Feuilly's lips parted into a half smile. "Lesgle has been vocal in your absence. I suspect his host is growing impatient."

"Yes, well, I do hope Combeferre understands."

And though he had mind to, Joly did not protest when Feuilly bent to pick up the baggage but to say that it was heavy. Feuilly did not seem to mind it much, even as he held still the candle - of course, he had not been carrying it for over a week - and in an understanding silence, they began down the hallway once more. Together they neared the back room, toward the subsiding sound of raucous laughter - that of Bossuet, Joly suspected. His suspicions were confirmed as they entered; Feuilly in front and he himself behind.

Positioned at the left side of the table was Bossuet, evidenced by the shiny head and frayed collar, and on the right, sitting slightly angled, Combeferre, by the curly orange hair and spectacle chain on the nape of his neck. Combeferre's shoulders shook in mirth; Bossuet himself seemed close to toppling forward against the table, now to the point of silent laughter.

To see and hear this joy gave Joly himself a tingling feeling of happiness - he could never suppress his own chuckles in Lègle's presence. How grand, he thought, that Combeferre, a stolid but dear friend, was now experiencing a similar effect.

" - yes, yes, my misfortune aside for a moment, if Madame Guignon may allow, I'd wager the man's political enthusiasm was genuine, and I think we ought to keep up with he and his friends."

In seconds Combeferre managed mostly to still, and while his tone was composed, there remained in it an element of gaiety as he replied, "Taking your luck into account, I advise you refrain from placing such a wager. Cuiusvis est errare... et cetera." At that, Bossuet chuckled, though not nearly so loudly as what had been audible to Joly in the corridor. Combeferre paused; he settled backward against the chair. Neither of them spoke for a moment. Joly gently nudged his elbow against Feuilly's arm as he seemed ready to speak - they did not need to interrupt quite yet.

"The event with his mistress notwithstanding," Combeferre continued, "I trust your judgment, and if you think him devoted, I suspect I will agree. But we must be diligent: if they are dissatisfied with those other coteries, they are all at risk of dispassion. Perhaps more if he himself is doubting - we would do well to ensure against the extinguishing of this light where we can."

"Perhaps if Enjolras spoke to him-"

"I can arrange that."

"- very well! He has a way about him that ensures against dispassion, doesn't he?"

Feuilly coughed, rather loudly, at the same moment Combeferre began to speak in reply. They at the table turned around to look back; Joly stood on his toes so that his own head was level with Feuilly's.

"You!" exclaimed Bossuet suddenly, nearly upending a drinking glass in his haste to move from the table. In merely a moment: Combeferre steadied the glass just before a spill, Feuilly stepped aside, and before he managed to take even a precursory look at him, Joly was wrapped in Lesgle's arms, his spectacles and traveling hat knocked askew.

And in another moment, he was relaxed, the soreness of travel dissipating - even if temporarily - with this much needed contact.  This alone was well worth delaying sleep for the afternoon: Bossuet's hug was pleasantly warm as always, his embrace safe and familiar, the smell of his coat precisely the same as Joly had tried to imagine while he was away. He breathed deeply, and turned his head up just enough to press their cheeks together.

What he did not expect to feel was a particular sort of scratch as he did so.

"That is hair," Joly mumbled against Bossuet's shoulder, but he gripped him firmly. They did not part for several more seconds.

After one final squeeze, Bossuet squirmed out of the hug and stepped back. "I did not catch that," he said, touching his very stubbly chin in a philosopher's pose.

It was, indeed, hair that he had felt. "I was in Privas for but three weeks, and you grew a beard!"

"Aha!" said Bossuet, and he moved his hand to gesture vaguely at the entire lower half of his face. "Now you notice! It is not yet mature, I forgive you for that oversight."

Joly's mouth was beginning to hurt from smiling; he found Bossuet's hand across from him and clasped it with his own. "It is the most hair at once I have ever seen on your head."

"Do not exaggerate, I was not bald until five and twenty. Besides - now we have true proof that those locks merely migrated, with ample encouragement."

"It would seem you had a role model," Joly said, loudly enough that Combeferre - who had in the last minute invited Feuilly to take Lesgle's former seat - and Feuilly - who had obliged him - would hear. Feuilly snorted.

"In your absence I provided your eagle a nest," Combeferre replied evenly. "Alas - it is a fault of my own that I neglected to acquire suitable shaving implements for the occasion. I myself have little use of them.

"A pity his eagle did not sprout golden feathers," Bossuet retorted good naturedly. He squeezed Joly's hand; in silent reply, Joly wiggled his fingers and squeezed back. "Three weeks, Jolllly! You were meant only to be gone a fortnight – our poor Combeferre has been waiting for me to fledge for some time now."

"He was delayed in Lyon," said Feuilly. "I have not," said Combeferre at the same time.

A beat passed of Joly looking back and forth between his friends, all three of whom were doing the same. Then:

"You were in Lyon, Joly?"

Joly nodded, and with his free hand repositioned his spectacles so that he could better meet Combeferre's eyes. "I did not plan to be for long," he said. "That is - the post goes through Lyon, of course, that is plain, but - my cousin and his wife live there, and I stayed with them for a few days, unexpectedly. Most often I only meet them once before going again on my way, but he needed a trustworthy man on his way to Paris to help out a friend of his and thought I'd better to be introduced to the fellows in the workshops if I were to accept the task."

Combeferre raised his eyebrows. "And these friends of your cousin - they are silk workers?"

"Well - first I met Bernard - a canut, and his wife, and his apprentices. They each had friends of their own, and of course they all had families - and so it progressed. It is a community; my cousin François is personable but he does not know everyone, see, and given the nature of the circumstances it is quite good I was able to meet those men - there is quite an element of risk to such a task, of course, my cousin sympathizes with us here, as do his friends, but after meeting them it was certainly easier to compose a half-truth when the weight of the thing was called into question -"

"And the task?"

The carpet bag sat on the floor just beside where he stood with Bossuet, having been gently placed there by Feuilly as he went to sit. Joly looked to it pointedly.

"François has generous friends in Paris. If - if I understand correctly, I am meant to return articles loaned to their rightful owners, as he plans not to return north for some time - that is, I live here; he does not. So I am the bearer, you see."

He looked up to see Combeferre still staring at him, lips pursed and brow scrunched in a quizzical position, spectacles lowered on his nose.

Whether or not it was meant to be, the expression seemed more comical than austere or scrutinizing. Such an affectation gave Joly mind to laugh; he only just managed to refrain from doing so. He dropped his gaze once more: though the look on his face was humorous, Combeferre's inquisitive stare from beneath his glasses was unnerving anyhow.

"It was rather more trying of an endeavor than I had presumed it would be, to bring it all with me," Joly continued, more quietly than before. He flexed his hand within Bossuet's grasp, but held on tightly by his thumb when it seemed his friend might let go. "But, I made it, and thus, here I am."

"Here you are, indeed," said Bossuet, kneeling to open the bag as he spoke. For a moment he remained reaching upward with one hand; when Joly realised this was due to his grip, he coughed - intentionally, out of awkwardness rather than out of any ailment - and then relaxed enough that Bossuet could make use of both of his arms.

He was certain his cheeks were coloring, so he looked at the top of Lesgle's head (still entirely hairless, unlike his chin) in order that he needn't look again at Combeferre while the latter was so clearly thinking.

"Joly," said Feuilly. Joly appreciated the way he said it - with utmost patience, as was his way, but still his detached tone. Feuilly was very rarely irate even when he had good reason to be; thus, he spoke very diplomatically in all other affairs. Meanwhile, Bossuet was on his knees and removing articles of clothing from the bag, placed there by François more for precaution than potential use - they were Joly's own, but when unfolded it would be plain to see he had not fit into them for several years. "Do you mean to tell us that you have brought, ah - firearms, or the like? All the way to Paris?"

He opened his mouth to speak - _yes, that probably was the case, but while it was awfully stressful he did think he managed successfully, thank you_ \- but at that moment Lesgle let out a low whistle.

A thin package had fallen from out of the collar of an old chemise; additionally, now that much of the stuffed clothing had been set upon the backroom floor, the parcels formerly concealed beneath them were now visible if one looked. Bossuet extracted one from its snug place between two coats and began to read aloud what was scrawled on its outer paper.

" _My sweet Jeanne_ ," he said, slightly melodramatic. " _I am deeply remorseful to have been abroad for your Holy Communion; please accept this belated gift with your uncle for my apology. Send my love to your mother and father_."

Then he paused, weighing the wrapped package in his hand.

"This one has cartridges! I am sure of it."

Though he was staring at the floor, Joly laughed in spite of himself; with unusual care, Bossuet set the parcel back into the bag.

Surprisingly, he proved able to do so without any mishaps.

(Over the years of their friendship, Joly had found that though he was a very reliable man and a very good friend, on account of his luck, Bossuet was not to be trusted with holding dangerous objects unless the situation was dire enough to require their usage - and though he was not certain as to what the package actually contained, he did not wish to find out because of Bossuet somehow triggering an extremely improbable detonation.)

"Well?" Feuilly prompted, and Joly looked up again.

"Eh, yes, but if I recall rightly there may be a collection of pamphlets in there, too - and I do not think there are cartridges; Bernard was not so specific as he could have been when he and François sent me off, but I have been under the impression that the pistol in the - the big one - was the only - ah, well, you see, I am returning them, not merely transporting them -"

Combeferre coughed in the distinctive way which indicated that although he had managed thus far to successfully suppress his urge to interrupt, he could not continue to do so for much longer, and could you please be quiet so that he might now make his remarks. Having learned to identify this particular noise very early on in their friendship, Joly stopped speaking of his own accord.

It was better, he thought, to allow Combeferre to say his mind when he knew exactly what he wanted to respond to - while he was the most rational of their friends, when stifled, he had a tendency to address multiple concerns at once and then proceed onward with some very complicated and perhaps too imaginative juxtaposition of his ideas, wholly irrelevant to the current discussion at hand.

The fact was that, while Joly was quite fond of listening to Combeferre speak at length on mesmerism or morphology, he could never be certain that something of his own interest would be the topic at hand - induction was one thing, the development of English steam locomotives was quite another.

To allow Combeferre to begin while he only had one point to make was most always the more reasonable course of action, for everyone's sake.

Of course, when Joly ceased, Combeferre hastily took his opportunity.

"While I wish very much to learn of how you accomplished what seems to me an act far more dangerous than you have indicated, I do believe it is more pertinent that you share with us why these articles were loaned to begin with."

"Oh," said Joly.

...and though Combeferre’s inclination to tangents was perhaps more often apparent, there were times also when Joly himself was the one who needed to get to the point. In those moments, Combeferre generally did a grand job of setting him in the right direction.

(He would not have remained in the medical school without that assistance, otherwise.)

"Surely it is no coincidence that this task was posed to your cousin by a silkworker?" continued Combeferre, punctuating his words with animated but confusing hand motions. Joly studied his expression: his scrutinizing had turned already into enthusiasm. "Do not misunderstand me, I wish not to assume - but if the men you are to be meeting in Paris are sympathetic to the canuts, this would be an opportunity to forge connections in Paris where otherwise the society has not made them, to create bonds with those engaged in matters out of the city - and what a valuable opportunity might that be for us, now that Bahorel has his hands full with -"

"Oho! Joly, Combeferre has been ruminating on recruitment all morning!”

Lesgle was still kneeling on the floor at Joly's feet, and his interruption was directed more at the ceiling than at Joly himself, but he didn't seem to mind for either circumstance. (And certainly Joly was not about to complain.) "You are surely in for more opportunity than your cousin François had ever thought would come of his arms race,” he continued. “Perhaps you ought to have been further delayed - alas! Now you are a victim of my own luck, with the coincidence of your arrival."

"As well as your own fault, Bossuet," came the warm reply. Combeferre pushed his spectacles up his nose by their bridge and carried on as though Lesgle's comment had been expected. "For it is he who has been putting thoughts into my head. Indeed, I am sure that he will tell you about his recently acquired flock of stray republicans after you tend to the matters at hand."

"Eaglets," supplied Feuilly, and Bossuet - who had just finished returning all of the contents of the carpet bag, albeit with much less of a method - began to cackle.

He also began to fall backward. Joly nudged Bossuet’s shoulder with his knee, gently, keeping him upright, then patted him on the head. Combeferre looked up and down between them both, smiling in his reserved way.

“Tomorrow,” said Joly loudly, before anyone could continue ahead of him, “I shall go to speak to the men which I need to. When that is done I should like very much to catch up with you all and with the others. I am glad I have found you here - but you see, I am very tired. I have not been sleeping in a properly aligned bed.”

He looked down at Bossuet, who was looking up - now that he had the beginnings of a beard, this was even more peculiar than it might otherwise have been.

“And - if neither of you object, I shall take Bossuet home with me tonight.”

Combeferre nodded. “Though it has been my pleasure to host him, I would greatly appreciate it.”

“So I will fledge after all!” said Bossuet happily, closing and fastening the carpet bag. In the next moment he stood, and did not allow Joly to take it from him.

And after ten more minutes of small catch up, each man gathered his things, they all departed, and the back room was left empty.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-graphic violence at the end of the chapter.

The next day, Joly awoke in his own bed, under his own sheets and his own quilt, and most importantly, beside his own intimate friend - whose sleepful fits he had not missed in his absence, but whose warmth he had longed for regardless.

For many minutes he lay with his head pressed to Bossuet's chest, soothed by the comfortable sound of his heartbeat. In the mornings, Bossuet was more inclined to rest peacefully; or, at the very least, Joly was more able to use him as a pillow without fear of ending up squished beneath him than in the middle of the night. And he made a very good pillow, particularly when contemplation was required; it fit quite well that Joly had much to contemplate: the day before them seemed a challenging undertaking.

A day to make connections and contacts, and to become more involved with Paris at large - to expand his circle of acquaintances, if not his circle of friends.

Joly was anxious to get on with it just as much as he was excited to meet the men he had been told so much about: men who lived in Paris alongside him, but whom he had never met, even with their connections to his friends and family from his home. In recent months, he had been occupied with the Friends of the ABC first, and the medical school second. Both had kept him immensely busy, no matter whether he was meeting with his friends in the Corinthe - for their meetings had become far more serious in recent months - or spending his day wholly in training at Salpêtrière.

Unless Bahorel invited him along to a soirée - and the soirées which Bahorel attended were not at all apolitical - Joly had not gotten into the rest of the city much, on account of both exhaustion and lack of a new place to go.

His visit home was much needed, and well worth the effort to secure his time away from the hospital, even if his mother had admonished him for his attempt to "disorder" his bedchamber furniture upon arrival. But he had been extraordinarily glad to be with his family.

Come Monday he would be back in the thick of things again, but until then he had Lesgle to come home to at nights and the political favor to occupy his days. And for this day, which Joly would get on with when Lesgle inevitably stirred enough to dislodge him, he had those things both at once.

(If Musichetta had not been so sour the previous morning, perhaps he would have her, too - but he did not need to think of that when he meant to be happy.)

So he contemplated, snuggled tightly against Bossuet, upon the day ahead of them and the thoughts they had shared the night before: After leaving the Musain they had gone straight to Joly’s apartment, under the assumption that what little of Bossuet’s things were at Combeferre’s flat could be retrieved later.

Then, as was their way, they had opened a bottle of wine, over which they discussed the details of Joly’s visit home and of their plan for the next day:

In unpacking the carpet bag they discovered it held four parcels in total. Three of them, conveniently, were shaped exactly like books; the other one was particularly broad.

Though he had not observed the act, being in the Privas at the time, Joly had listened to the explanation of the concealment method twice: once from his cousin François himself, and once from Bernard. Each parcel was wrapped in two layers of paper and then in twine, marked on its outside with a scrawled message for simple identification. In the carpet bag, they were nestled between at least two pieces of clothing in a manner conspicuous enough to be entirely unobjectionable.

Hiding revolutionary material in plain sight was never something Joly had considered, himself; he expressed this concern only once.

 _It is true that things may go wrong_ , Bernard had told him on the morning of his departure, _for there is always a possibility, don't you think? but if they do, it is as we discussed: you are merely bringing along some delayed holiday gifts from one relative to another_ , and he had gone on to say that Joly must affect surprise if his luggage gave cause for suspicion - and to play naivety if that suspicion led to an investigation. And, after providing Joly with more spoken gratitude than he felt he deserved, Bernard had given him a letter, along with advice to keep it near to him and unopened until he was safe in his own apartment.

Luckily, the journey was without obstacles until his arrival at the Paris wall early the previous morning, at which point there were suddenly several.

Perhaps more luckily, the final tariff collector was much more acquiescent when Joly suggested he accept a higher margin in order to lessen the great trouble of inspecting all of his luggage. (And thus he made it, but once through, he kept his fingers at his wrist until his pulse had returned to normal; this did not occur until the coach was well within the city proper.)

Bossuet had thought the whole story riveting, even so drowsy as Joly was when he told it - but Bossuet had seemed to be more entertained than he normally was the prior night, regardless. Joly did not mind this at all, even if it felt out of place, when he thought of it compared with Bossuet's typical nonchalance.

Yet, he felt reassured to know that Lesgle had missed him, too. The end of his first week in Privas marked the only week in nearly two years that they had been so utterly separated - and then it continued to two weeks, then three.

In his hometown Joly had thought of many things to share with him, had written some down and forgotten some others and forced himself to remember more still. When he had his friend all to himself, the thoughts and jokes and ideas and puns he had been collecting in those short weeks came out in a flood.

Even keeping themselves preoccupied without the other, they were still attached.

It gave Joly hope, in a silly way.

And in planning, he grew only more excited for the work, and for the support of this cause that he felt for so strongly - with Lesgle beside him, it did not matter if the task turned out to be nominal after all, for they would be carrying it out together.

They decided, after drinking half the bottle between them and getting into bed without changing into proper nightclothes, that they would go together to the addresses of the recipients: three men whom François praised as a great assistance to their work in Lyon even from so far as Paris, who much deserved a direct update on the situation as well as their items returned to them.

Bernard’s letter provided the addresses and the details to the packages, but - and Bossuet was sure to say so - the matter seemed still a puzzle of sorts.

But to Joly, that much was understandable, given his mode of travel. Any information that fell into the wrong hands would be dangerous. He only hoped that these men, friends of his cousin, would each be in at the hour he called upon them.

Still, although Joly and Lesgle had distributed pamphlets and arms in the past plenty of times between them, in addition had written and operated each, the risk of such activity seemed more great when there were unfamiliar fellows involved.

Nonetheless he was optimistic.

And when Bossuet woke, rolling on top of Joly and laughing his morning greeting in the process, his spirits only lifted.

Together they went over their plan for the day as they breakfasted, washed, and dressed - Joly in a new frock coat given to him by a sister-in-law on the night before his departure from Privas, suited to spring weather; Bossuet in his own dependable and well-loved coat, suited to any season in which he chose to wear it.

Within the hour they were headed off, in good spirits, vigilant, and with parcels in tow.

\- - -

“Really, you do not look alike,” Jean-Edouard told Joly, his hands folded on top of his received parcels. They sat across from one another in the small sitting room of the former’s flat, Lesgle at Joly’s side, listening. “François is too fair.”

“Yes, he is my the eldest of my father’s brother.”

That met a smile, and Joly felt more at ease. He patted Lesgle’s thigh, then Lesgle caught his hand and set his own on top.

“So I had thought. It is odd to use his surname for you. But, you are both republicans?”

“Ah, that, too, yes - but do not credit our fathers for it,” Joly said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “He surely learned it in Paris, as have I.”

Jean-Edouard laughed, a boisterous sound, but he shook his head: “Maybe so. You are southern at heart; I can tell. No matter for how long you are away, that stays with you. And of us Lyonnais, I am not at all the only republican. Here, they all think we are backward. I assure you, Joly, this is not the case."

In reply Joly nodded. Jean-Edouard seemed to be a content man, if his demeanor was anything to go by. He had greeted them with suspicion, as Joly had expected, but upon his certainty of identity and with Joly’s profuse apologies for imposing so early, he warmed to them quickly. Since Bossuet had handed the parcels to him, he had not let go of them, but he had invited them each to sit with him.

For the last half hour he and Joly had been talking, Bossuet less so, but at each moment Joly looked, he saw his friend to be attentive.

“He,” pronounced Joly, tilting his head toward Lesgle, “is from Meaux, and I myself am from Privas - though I attended the school at Valence, and - that is better known.”

Again Jean-Edouard laughed, very kindly. Joly felt his cheeks color slightly.

“We make quite the pair,” Lesgle added when his own chuckles had subsided.

“You do, you do. But, Joly! Of course I know Privas. My father was a _canut_ , you forget, in my childhood we would visit the mills from time to time. He did not trust the merchants. Besides - it is near enough to Lyon for me to know otherwise, I’d say.”

Setting his packages on the table in front of him, Jean-Edouard continued, “you must forgive me for not opening them; I ought to leave them bound up. Know that I am glad to have them again, even if they were not helpful, in the end. Bernard is a fine man for his memory.”

“Helpful?” said Bossuet, leaning forward. Joly did, too, not realising he was doing so simultaneously until Jean-Edouard once again chuckled.

“You both are like twins,” he exclaimed as he settled back in his chair. “If you did not look so different - ah, and if I did not know better - I might suspect you brothers, at the least.”

It was not the first time they had received the comment from strangers. It likely wouldn’t be the last, either, but somehow that particular remark still always gave Joly a strange, tight feeling in his stomach. He shrugged. He took his hand from Lesgle’s knee, and, trying to be nonchalant, simply said, “Not by blood.”

No matter what others called it, he supposed, they _were_ very close.

“Monsieur, I must ask - what do you mean by ‘helpful’?” Bossuet said in a stage whisper, and he playfully bumped his shoulder to Joly’s.

The tension dissipated.

Jean-Edouard raised his eyebrows. On him, the motion looked slightly silly - he had a very square, sturdy face, and though he seemed jovial when he laughed, his eyes were always sharp. “Lord, I did not tell you, did I?”

They shook their heads - this time Joly was aware of their coordination - and across from them, Jean-Edouard clapped his hands once. “You went to all of this trouble and I have not done the courtesy of explaining why! Good Lord! Quite sorry,” he said, very quickly. Joly sensed Bossuet inching forward by the brush of their legs, and he smiled.

“You see - I went home last November, not for long, as Alice could not come with me - she does work for the tailor downstairs, and they had much to do.” He paused. “I had to go, for my father was ailing. He had a man to take over with the workshop all before I got there, an apprentice of his at the looms, but - alas - when the post came it was a great shock to me. I left at once, and the evening after I arrived, I… saw him off.”

Bossuet pressed Joly’s hand, rubbing his thumb along his wrist. Joly was reminded suddenly of the day he had, nearly six years ago, listened as Bossuet told a similar (if more emotional) story. He squeezed his hand and half-turned to catch his eye, but he seemed intent on paying Jean-Edouard his full attention.

Who, as he spoke, gazed across the room without meeting their eyes - but he was not tearful, or even somber, only serious.

“Bernard provided unfathomable assistance, for he and Papa had been friends,” Jean-Edouard continued, “but he leads his own workshop. Thus, François helped me where Bernard could not. Your cousin is a hardy man, Joly.”

“Still, when the workshop was back in order and the men back to work, I had to return. Before I left, I loaned Bernard a pistol, for I had heard from my father’s apprentices that there was discontent among the silk workers. I wanted him to be safe - he is so peaceable he does not keep arms, but riots are not predictable.”

“No,” said Bossuet in agreement. Joly looked over again; this time, Bossuet smiled at him while he went on.  “But a man could say you predicted one, could he not?”

When Jean-Edouard laughed, Joly and Bossuet did, too - more stilted.

“Or he could say that the case was merely one of lucky timing.”

“Lesgle would not know about that,” cut in Joly. “He is very unlucky.”

Bossuet then made a sound that could have been a laugh, if it were not utterly garbled with a choke of surprise.

“Take my word for it, then, Lesgle,” said Jean-Edouard. “Alas. But, yes, that is what I meant by helpful - I do not know if he might have used it, when he had cause to do so, but I am certain that it is what you’ve brought from him to me.”

Joly nodded in sympathy. “I do not know, either. If it was used in November.”

“Pity.”

For a few moments after that, they all sat in silence, until Bossuet took out his pocket watch and pronounced the time. At that, Joly started, and he began to rise, pulling Bossuet up with him.

Bossuet picked up their hats from the table, placed his hat on Joly's head, and then put Joly's on his own.

“We had best be going,” Joly said, steadying the toppling hat with one hand and lightheartedly smacking Bossuet’s shoulder with the other. “Thank you for your generosity.”

“And for letting us into your home.”

Joly coughed. “Yes, and that.”

Jean-Edouard grinned, rising from his own chair. “Sometimes it’s worth trusting, isn’t it? You two are welcome to come around again - with warning, I’d prefer, but I am happy to meet other men who sympa -”

Just then they heard the loud, creaking sound of a door swinging open, and a woman’s voice:

“Dian? ...who are these men?”

The words ended more stiffly than they had begun.

Bossuet and Joly each turned - in the doorway behind them stood a woman, fully clothed in a grey dress and a dark-stained apron, but with her long, light brown hair down in front of her shoulders.

Joly bowed to her, and she blinked - then pressed her hand to her cheek, and stepped backward into the room whence she had come. He turned his head to look to Jean-Edouard, who spluttered for a second or two before saying slowly, “Joly, Lesgle - ah, here is Alice, my wife. Alice - _this_ Joly is the cousin of François Joly, and a friend of a man I knew at home.”

“A pleasure,” said Bossuet, holding on to his hat to bow his head also.

“Ah!” Alice exclaimed, less coldly, and she met Joly’s eyes, then, before glancing over to Bossuet beside him. “Dian thinks highly of François. I am grateful to your family, Joly.”

Although she now smiled, her voice was very soft, and her words labored.

“Dian?”

“That is me,” Jean-Edouard said simply. “It is easier to say Jean, or Jean-Edouard, with company.”

Beside Joly, Bossuet gave a typical, noncommittal hum, then leaned against his arm just briefly enough to push him off balance. He stumbled. Alice giggled.

“But,” continued Jean-Edouard, with a somewhat amused expression, “it is easier at home to say Dian.”

His words hung in the air for a moment. No one spoke.

And then, Joly understood: this was not a problem he had ever dealt with himself, but one which he recalled from his teenaged years, as his peers in the boarding school were confronted with it quite regularly. Of his friends in Paris, in the Society of the Friends of the ABC and with a few of his acquaintances at the medical school - men who had come from all over France to study in the city, from rural valleys and bustling ports or anywhere in between, there were few among them who did not prefer to use their surname.

He had thought of it before, certainly.

It stood also that many of his friends spoke Latin more often than anything else - Bahorel, and Courfeyrac, and Lesgle especially.

“Edouard, then…?” Joly mused aloud, and Alice laughed gaily, finally moving forward into the sitting room.

“Edouard for Douâl! It is nearly the same, he wanted something very different, but his mother named him, Djouàn-Douâl. I told him, Dian, you must respect your mother!” she said, just as stilted, but happily. With a sly smile, she continued, “and with me, Alice for Alisse - Alisse is not so strange, but with each of us together, it is far too much for Parisians.”

“I am not from Paris, I am from Privas,” replied Joly quickly, ignoring Lesgle’s exaggerated sigh. (It was fond enough a sound that he figured he could wait just a bit longer before addressing it.) He did not mention Valence, but this time he did not need to:

“You are from Privas! Why! I know Privas very well; I visited many times, as it is so near Valença!” she exclaimed, suddenly more animated than she had been before, with a different, lilting tone.

Her new excitement was contagious - the eager expression her face, wide eyes, gave Joly a sense of cheer. He looked at her directly and smiled.

“Oh - yes, that is the same Privas I mean,” he started,  speaking brightly, but Alice kept on.

“Oh! I _was_ right! _Joly_! I am from Valença, and my mother wound silk in Privas! Did Dian not say?”

“No,” said Joly, before the man in question could get word in. “You must know, however, that I attended my six years before medical school at the lycée in Valença.”

“Ah, the boarding school! Did you come to know the city quite well?”

“In fact I did, yes, for my great aunt and uncle lived there. I would visit them when the dean allowed it. And François, my cousin - he has always lived in Lyon. My father has many siblings, all of whom have children, so our family is quite scattered around -”

“How grand!”

Lesgle coughed, more loudly than perhaps was necessary; when Joly turned to look at him, he only squinted, and held up the pocket watch. Jean-Edouard, behind him, raised his eyebrows.

“Yes. My apologies,” said Joly to Lesgle, who merely shrugged his shoulders. Then, to Alice: “We must go. I should like to talk more with you about home some day, if you wish.”

She nodded, her cheeks and ears coloring. “Yes.”

“Thank you for this,” said Jean-Edouard slowly. “And if you have a way, do thank your cousin for me, and Bernard. I am very grateful.”

“It was our pleasure,” Lesgle replied immediately. “Jolllly?”

Joly nodded. He stepped toward the door, pausing as Alice waved, then disappeared into the adjacent room.

“That society you were telling me about earlier... A-B-C,” Jean-Edouard murmured, once the door had shut. “If there is anything that I can do, within reason, you know where to find me. I cannot promise the availability of a student, but I shall be glad to assist.”

“There is a little wine shop at the Rue de la Chanvrerie and the Rue Saint-Denis called the Corinthe,” said Lesgle. “We meet there sometimes. Usually a man can find someone we know.”

“I know the place.”

“The food is awful, but, hallo - it makes a habit for some of us. And convenient for you, I’d say.”

“That is true - on both accounts.”

Now it was Bossuet’s turn to pull Joly along, and he did so, toward the door. Joly retrieved their canes from beside the doorframe.

“We hope to see you there, then,” Bossuet said, and Jean-Edouard saw them out with a smile.

“I’ll do my best. Once again - I am grateful.”

They said their farewells to one another, and when they had entered the corridor outside the apartment, Joly passed Lesgle his cane.

Nothing was said between them, even once they had reached the little alley down the stairs and outdoors of the building.

In direct contrast to the misty grey of the day before, it was a sunny day in Paris for early April. As there were no clouds to be seen in the sky, even the alley - hidden as it was - received a great deal of light. Wordlessly, Joly pressed his hand to Bossuet’s back, a common gesture of comfort between them, as they stepped into the street and directly into the sunshine.

For another few seconds, the silence continued - the street was nearly deserted, but the noise of their feet was steady and even, so the silence was not awkward.

Bossuet spoke first.

“What was that, with his wife - Alice?”

Joly blinked.

He might have expected a comment as to where they would next be going, given their guess at the duration of their visit had left them both behindhand. He did not expect that question, and certainly not the strange tone Bossuet had used to ask it.

“Conversation?” he tried, tentatively.

Bossuet stopped walking so suddenly that Joly nearly collided with him, then he began again - this time, slowing his steps and going to the side, so they were next to one another. “So I gathered,” he said. “You were saying?”

“It is not - that is, you do not think I was! - well, they are married, Bossuet.”

At that, Bossuet laughed; Joly felt his cheeks warm - he gripped the handle of his cane more tightly, and quickened his steps to stay beside him.

“She is from Valence,” he said. “As you know, I went to school there. I am sure she was simply excited to meet someone who knew where the place was, my friend, do not read much into it -”

“What I mean is,” said Bossuet, as he stepped directly into a puddle that by position Joly managed to miss, “literally speaking - I did not comprehend a word of it -” He stopped speaking for a moment to do a sort of hop-step, shaking the water from his shoes.

“...Oh,” said Joly, faintly confused.

“You see, Jolllly, like my father and grandfathers before me, I am of Meaux, and thus do not speak much else than French. Thus, your patois is unintelligible.”

“... _Oh_ ,” said Joly, now realising.

They heard at once a repeating clop of horses’ hooves, and the creaking, rickety sound of wheels on cobblestones.

An omnibus passed.

“Oh?” said Lesgle, watching it. Then he turned around to catch Joly’s eye, and though his lips were parted in a wide grin, his eyes were rueful. Seeing this, Joly sighed.

“Patois,” he repeated. “That is just how we talk, at home. And, that is how I _have talked_ for the last fortnight, in fact.  I - I did not realise it when I began with her, too, but I think that I recall now.”

Bossuet began to walk somewhat diagonally, as his gait was faster than Joly’s even when he tried to keep a slower pace.

Joly paused speaking and sprang to catch up again, then could not help but to laugh. “So that is why you were so puzzled! Oh, Bossuet - a fortnight ago I confused my young nephew in the same way, only because I started in French, it has happened often since - I do not know what to make of it. Truly I am sorry.”

As he was very contrite, he then pouted, sticking out his lip.

Lesgle, seeing this, burst into laughter again, and rotated back to face forward. He began to skip, and Joly chuckled, too, watching him prance in circles. Bouncing ahead, Bossuet called back, “she seemed entirely charmed, even if I myself was quite lost - next time you ought to -”

And just when he had begun to turn at the bend in the street several paces ahead, he stopped laughing, stopped speaking, stopped prancing, and stood very still.

Joly stopped short behind him.

In leaning in toward the center of the road and craning his neck, he could see ahead of him to what Bossuet faced, and he fixed his tilted spectacles in order to do so better.

The cross street a block ahead of them met their own little road at an intersection wide enough to accommodate a fountain in its center. Even from so far away as he was, from his vantage point it was obvious that some sort of ruckus was occurring. Joly listened, and he heard shouts.

Bossuet did not move; Joly lifted his cane and ran quickly up to him, as quietly as he could. Without speaking, Bossuet reached behind him and took hold of the flare of Joly’s coat.

If there were more people on the other side of the block, it would have been fair to say that a crowd was forming. But the men and women gathered were few - certainly less than ten, with all of them, and they were spread out along the side of the road - but together they were loud enough that the din was audible even so far away as they stood.

The spectacle was simple: a man, and an officer, but the situation did not appear to be violent - yet.

“We need to leave,” murmured Lesgle, but he still did not move.

Across the street from where they stood, a pair of shutters slammed shut. Further ahead came more shouts; at the corner of the intersection, a woman leaned out an upper window, from which she tossed the contents of a linen basket.

“Bossuet, what are they -”

Someone in the gathered group wailed.

“There has been talk of poison in the water,” he said roughly, stepping backward, and then gripping Joly’s elbow. “And that is a commotion. We need to go - _now_ , Joly.”

Twice was all it took for Joly to agree, but he neither moved nor looked away until the shouts turned into screams - the officer, it appeared, had struck a spectator, who had struck back.

At that, they started running.


	3. Chapter 3

Though they came to a slow when the noise grew more distant, they did not halt until after they had crossed the street ahead of the alley near Jean-Édouard’s apartment - back in the direction they’d come.

They ended up in a different alley, a smaller one, but that connected to a broader, more crowded boulevard. Joly put his hand to his chest and bent over his knees, panting. Lesgle was coughing, leaning against the side wall of the neighboring building without his usual composure.

His thoughts raced - this neighborhood was not the Latin Quarter, neither was it one particularly sordid. Its proximity to the market lead its tenements to be populated most entirely with working families rather than students or other bourgeoisie. Some, like Jean-Édouard and his wife, were slightly better off than their neighbors; no matter that, Joly certainly did not think it an unsafe area.

Five years ago he had been introduced to Feuilly in a restaurant at most two blocks away from that fountain.

Even setting that knowledge aside, however, a simple riot was not the sort of thing that would give Bossuet motive to leave.

“We ought to have...” Joly began, when he had collected himself, but he did not know what he meant to say. He trailed off, feeling helpless, and looked to Bossuet.

“There is nothing we could have done,” came the out of breath reply, “especially not with what you’ve got in your pockets.”

In truth, that was a compelling argument: officers of the peace were not known for their sympathy.

“But, why -”

“You were gone too long, Jolllly.”

He had mind to counter him with a gentle riposte. The audible exhaustion in his voice - slightly labored from their quick run, but sad, too, and slow - gave him pause.

When he met Bossuet’s gaze, he held it, but said nothing.

“A month or a week, either would have been too much.” And he patted the wall beside him, as if to say, _come here_. Joly obliged.

For a moment they stood that way without exchanging words, leaning into the wall and against each other. Then Bossuet spoke again, more composed: “That was not all a jest, yesterday. Combeferre wanted to be alone for much of your absence. I could tell.”

He sighed.

“And hell, I wouldn’t blame him for a moment. If he spends his days in the hospitals, I am not the man he wants to come home to. I overheard him tell Enjolras - at least Hôtel-Dieu is at capacity.”

Joly felt down Bossuet’s arm for his hand, which he took and held tightly - for whose sake, he did not know, but he didn’t care, either.

“Back there I said poisoned water - Joly, I ought to tell you, that was not the only disturbance I’ve come across, lately. Only a blind man would be unable to see that the poor are ailing more than the rich, and what else to think but the fountains? Combeferre won’t say if the rumors are true, but whatever it is, seems no one really knows the cause.”

“You... don’t know what it is?” Joly asked. He felt Bossuet’s shoulders rise beside his own.

It stood that Bossuet did not know much about medicine, no matter what Joly tried to teach him - established treatments, or new theories. That did not mean, however, that he did not pay attention when the knowledge was relevant.

“Well - cholera. An epidemic of it, and of a different sort than what Combeferre has read about, apparently, but I’m not the man to know. But Joly, thousands have died in only the last fortnight.”

The jittering sensation Joly had begun to feel in his chest settled like a stone in his stomach. _How did I not realize_ , he thought, and then he expressed the thought aloud into the sleeve of Bossuet’s coat.

Before he departed Paris several weeks ago, he had heard from his fellow medical students that there were cases - from outside of Paris, of course - of cholera morbus in the hospitals. He had not thought much of it at the time other than to keep recollection of his own abdominal pains for a few days. By the time he had left, the isolated patients had left his mind entirely, replaced by issues more relevant to his own internship: at Salpêtrière the work was with illness of the mind over the body.

And as he had left Paris without any presentiment of what was to come, he returned without the expectation.

After a moment, Bossuet shrugged his shoulder, nudging Joly upright. “You are here now, are you not?” he asked. When Joly looked up, he saw Bossuet’s usual fond smile. Perhaps he looked a little sad - his eyes shone - but the smile, familiar as it was, lifted Joly’s spirits enough that he could at least nod in reply.

Bossuet went on. “Joly - you arrived exhausted yesterday. You surprised us, you know, we did not wish to spoil it with talk of…. This. And I thought perhaps you had already noticed, all the running around you did yesterday, but you did not mention it.”

Joly said nothing.

“Alas, I then forgot to inform you before we went to bed,” Bossuet added, with a clipped laugh. “I missed you, I worried after you, suddenly you were returned. I am not as enthused over cholera as I am over you, my friend.”

In their years of friendship, there was never a time when Bossuet had not known what to say, or how to say it. During those times when Joly’s eccentricities got the best of him, Bossuet was capable of bringing him to a point of rationality with a quip or a joke - or, in this case, a gentle and sympathetic reminder.

“I missed you very much also,” Joly said slowly, glancing up to show Bossuet a smile. They parted; Joly brushed off the front and back of his coat, and picked up his cane from the ground where it had dropped. “So, it is good that I shall have you to myself for a few days more.”

“Well! _That_ I cannot disagree with, Jolllly, but the more we idle here the less we can idle tomorrow, thus -!”

He offered his arm to Joly, Joly took it, and they set off, Bossuet chattering about where precisely they’d find the next mens’ flats.

The sun shone into the street better than in the alley, and the street itself was both familiar and crowded, unlike where they had been before  - in these ways Joly felt safe to walk and to observe. He put himself to focusing on the rest of their day, and to hoping that their next visits would go as well as their first.

Likely he would address the epidemic in weeks to come, in his studies and internship, but until then there was not much he could do. To concern himself with it would cause undue stress, he knew, and he knew also that stress was an unnecessary addition to his temperament.

Secure in the thought that he need not allow his worries to dampen the task, he walked alongside and conversed with Bossuet in decided contentment.

**\- - -**

“Monsieur Guillaume?”

They had rapped on the door twice - the first time quietly, the second time more forcefully. The flat was on the second floor of a little building devoted to lodgings, but the only person they had seen at all was the portress.

Joly called the name again.

“Perhaps he is not at home,” said Bossuet.

“If he were out, we would not be in,” replied Joly, frowning. “François said he is a student.”

(The portress had a share of questions and was satisfied only when Bossuet concocted a tale of how they had met.)

“Ah - that is true. And, as we are in, it must be the right building.”

(The landlord at the last tenement had told them they were at the wrong place, and that the man they sought had never lived there. They had not believed him, but they left anyway.)

From behind the door they heard a clattering sound, followed by a high-pitched whine.

“Monsieur Guillaume,” said Joly, to Bossuet rather than to the door, “does not seem quite so hospitable.”

They had rode in an omnibus, for the apartment was in the Latin Quarter - a short walk from Joly’s own, in fact. But he did not want to leave so soon.

“Not everyone takes guests at all hours, _Jolllly_.”

But Bossuet knocked one more time.

Finally, the door opened - but the chain remained latched. Joly tried to peek in.

He ended up looking its occupant in the eyes, for he had stuck his head through the space of the door and its frame.

“What do you want?”

“You are Alexandre Guillaume?”

“I have nothing for you.”

He tried to shut the door. Bossuet placed his foot against it.

“But perhaps we have something for you,” he said in a low tone.

The man - Guillaume - had moved so that only half of his face was visible in the doorway, and thus only one of his furrowed eyebrows.

“There is nothing I want from you, either,” he countered sharply.

“Monsieur Guillaume,” Joly said quickly, as the door began to close again, “I am the cousin of François Joly, and he sent me here. I have brought my friend. If I am mistaken in coming, we will leave at once, and be sorry to have bothered you.”

Guillaume’s visible eye widened. He held up a hand, the door closed, and the clatter of noise they had heard moments before recommenced.

Joly and Bossuet looked to one another in mutual confusion.

Joly hoped they were not meant to leave.

For several seconds more, they waited. Bossuet tapped his foot impatiently. When the sound became annoying, Joly was tempted to step on him - gently - but just when he began to feel _too_ tempted, Bossuet’s motion ceased.

From behind the door, they noises stopped, and they heard nothing.

The door opened, this time with its chain unattached. Monsieur Guillaume appeared again, his mouth pressed into a line.

In his arms he held a very large, affronted-looking cat, which Joly saw before anything else, and at which he could not suppress a coo.

He closed his mouth and went quiet when he felt Bossuet’s elbow jab into his arm.

Guillaume held a finger to his lips and tilted his head toward the inside of the flat.

They followed him inside.

As soon as they had entered, Guillaume closed the door behind them with latch and chain.

On the whole the flat was very tidy - one mid-sized room, with two beds, and two chairs, but a single desk and wardrobe, and a stove in the far corner that appeared as though it was scarcely used. The uniform of the Polytechnique hung over the back of one chair; on top of one bed was a flipped cat’s basket. At the foot of that bed, there was an overturned wooden case, around which were spilled cartridges. A curtain with tears at the hem hung in the opposite corner, swinging precariously from only one hook in the ceiling. It concealed, partially, a chamber pot.

The cat had not looked at Joly, nor at Bossuet, but it did seem very focused on the movement of the curtain.

This, Joly realized, evidenced the source of the earlier noises. He bit his lip in order not to smile.

Guillaume placed the cat down. It trotted to the door, where it sat on its hind legs and clawed for a moment, then gave up. This earned him a very pointed sigh from Guillaume, and a whispered ‘oh’ from Joly.

And that earned Joly another nudge from Bossuet.

“You are François’s cousin,” repeated Guillaume, with a shake of his head. “And this is urgent?”

Really, the man could not have been much older than Joly was himself, if he was older at all: he was pale and smooth-faced, with a full head of brown hair and broad set eyes. But his features were small, and gave the impression of youth. Even with all of that, he was handsome, albeit peculiar.

“I am, but - eh,” Joly said, and he shrugged - if he had only been allowed in on urgency, perhaps it would be best for them to leave anyhow. “It is not too urgent, but I have things for you. From him, that is, and - well, I have only one thing, it is simply a package.”

“Dear Lord.” Guillaume’s low voice sounded much lighter in exclamation. Joly hoped that he was relieved more than frustrated.

Perhaps it showed on his face, or on Bossuet’s, because Guillaume hastily continued: “No, don’t look that way. Forgive me, I worried you were with the police.”

Bossuet made a very choked sound, somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

“Yes, yes, I know, pardon me, but I had good reason to worry. Then you told me about François, I took a better look at you… and now I admit I have never known a pair of officers to dress... like that.”

Well, officers did not dress like ordinary students, that was true, but Joly did not think he dressed particularly badly. Joly looked down at his coat, then to Bossuet’s coat - _that is not a policeman’s coat, at least_ , he thought, then back up at Guillaume.

“Rather, they generally wear hats,” Guillaume went on, a little sheepish, “and their coats… match, if they are wearing them. That is what I mean.”

“We are certainly not policemen,” Joly began to say, but he was interrupted:

“Joly,” said Bossuet, genuinely close to laughter, “you have misplaced your hat.”

He put his hands to his head and discovered he was, indeed, hatless. But his hat was on Bossuet’s head.

Bossuet seemed to realize this at the same moment.

“Alas! Good day, _Guignon_ , indeed,” he said, in a deadpan, and Joly burst into laughter.

It was short lived, as Guillaume stared at them blankly in response. Noticing this, Joly patted the pockets of his coat, trying to find the parcel meant for him.

When he found it, he held it out to Guillaume and composed himself at once.

“This is from François, to be returned to you, which assisted a friend of his in Lyon, called Bernard,” he said quickly. “We can be going, if -”

“No, no.”

Guillaume took it, smiled at the scrawled message on its paper, and carefully undid the layers of wrapping.

“Aha - I thought I should never see these again.”

He held up several brochures, all handwritten. The front pamphlet had a map-like diagram on its cover page. Joly squinted at the penmanship, attempting to decipher the script - it did not appear to be a newsletter but an instructional manual.

“By God, these are old, aren’t they! I have pains just thinking about them - you see, my printer of choice was out of the business last summer, so I had to write each copy by hand. I thought François might destroy them if they were useful, but thank heavens it appears he did not, ” Guillaume said quickly, flipping the pages with uncontained excitement. “Moreover I was worried someone would get arrested - knowledge acquired at the Polytechnique is generally meant for Polytechniciens alone, but I - ”

Both his words and his smile suddenly faltered. He shuffled the pamphlets awkwardly in his hands.

“I let you in without enquiring - what are your names?”

“Everyone calls me Joly,” said Joly, feeling as though he had said that far too many times in one day. In these times, it was good that he was the only Joly of his family still in Paris. (Even still, it was a more common name than he sometimes realized.)

“Lesgle,” said Bossuet, “of Meaux.”

Guillaume’s gaze lingered on Bossuet, who met it by staring back at him. Joly looked between the two with some confusion.

When they each turned to Joly, he did not know what to say, but Guillaume spoke anyhow: “And you know already that I am Guillaume, but I must ask, please do not call me Alexandre. Would either of you like to sit? I have the time if you do, but I am afraid I cannot offer anything other than conversation.”

He at least seemed satisfied as to their confidentiality, even with the little information they had given him. Bossuet’s brows were raised, he looked as though he wanted to say something but did not know whether to do so. Still, he caught Joly’s eye and nodded.

“If we would not impose,” Joly said, gesturing as well to Bossuet, “we most certainly have the time.”

“Splendid!” Guillaume replied, and he began to move around furniture.

At this, the cat mewled for attention. While Guillaume ignored it, Joly longed to provide it with some - it looked soft, and clean, even if it was perhaps not well behaved if the spillage of the ammunition was anything to go by.

Really, he had always been fond of cats, and this one was no exception. Unfortunately, neither his landlord, nor his mistress, nor his dear friend agreed with his sentimentality - all on the account of a hay fever acquired in the presence of felines.

Bossuet, the dear friend in question, shook his head when Joly started to inch toward the cat.

A few paces away, Guillaume had draped the uniform - Joly assumed it was his - across a desk and set the two chairs on the floor across from the bed sans cat basket. “If this will do?” he said.

“It will more than do,” Bossuet supplied, and they went to sit. Guillaume sat on the bed across from them.

The three of them were quiet for a moment, looking from one to another.

“So as to your political opi -” Guillaume started to ask, but he was interrupted.

“You are _that_ Guillaume!” exclaimed Bossuet suddenly.

Guillaume and Joly both jumped, but while Joly sat waiting to be informed of why this was significant - it was not a common family name, really, Guillaume turned pink and nodded.

“Aha, I thought that I recognized you! The party at that playwright’s apartment, was it not?”

Bossuet was earnest.

Joly did not remember any such party; contrarily, Guillaume seemed as though he wished nothing else but to forget it.

“That was months ago - ah, was it not?”

“Yes,” Guillaume said, drawing out the syllable. “At least six. I have not seen your friend Courfeyrac since, aside from his occasional surprise visits to the Polytechnique, but Bahorel and I meet often, now. I thought your name was familiar.”

“You two know each other?” asked Joly, staring at Bossuet, who seemed to be remembering many things at once, by his facial expression. “And - Bahorel?”

“Sort of,” - from Guillaume.

“You could say that,” - from Bossuet, and now he looked like he wished he had not brought it up.

“I do not need to ask your political opinions, then,” Guillaume said, staring off at the door. “Unless they have changed since that night?”

“Still a radical,” Bossuet says, chuckling. Joly recognized it as an attempt to diffuse tension rather than Bossuet finding anything humorous.

“Yes, we were all radicals there, I think,” Guillaume mused. He looked back to them. “Forgive me, Joly. Your friend Lesgle and I first met last autumn, and I was a friend of Courfeyrac’s until then, too, if you know him.”

Bossuet coughed.

“Ah,” said Joly faintly, although he had no actual understanding of the circumstances.

“At the time, you were in Cergy with Enjolras,”  Bossuet whispered helpfully. That was probably why, Joly thought. He did not remember being told of a party after that short trip - but it was months ago, after all, and if its proceedings had been any bit as awkward as the present conversation, there was likely a good reason he had been left unaware of them.

The cat, once again, meowed.

Guillaume sighed. “Do not mind her,” he said, snapping his fingers in the cat’s direction. Joly let his hand drop to his side as the cat came over, and just as he had hoped, he was rewarded with a nuzzle to his knuckles.

“She is no inconvenience,” Joly said happily, scratching the cat behind her ears. He made a point of ignoring Bossuet’s (fond) eye roll.

“She is if she lives with you,” replied Guillaume, not unkindly. “She belongs to Théodore - he and I share the room, sometimes. But he is - ah, he is in jail.”

“Jail?”

Bossuet poked Joly’s leg as he spoke; Joly patted the cat on her head and set his hands in his lap.

He looked to Bossuet, then to Guillaume.

“Yes,” Guillaume said to Bossuet. “He was arrested once in January, but we - our group, rather - got him out in short time. And now he is in again. I have heard nothing. I do not know the law as well as I ought to, with all this politics I get into, but I do not think they have a true reason to keep him.”

“I know the law,” said Bossuet, his usually languid voice suddenly sharp. Then he settled, just slightly - Joly watched him scratch his chin and lean forward, focused. “Well, I was a student of it, I can hardly be called a  lawyer - but I can tell you, even without resorting to jargon, that you are probably right. Simply put, the code in the books is not always executed in direct fashion.”

Guillaume nodded, but said nothing. He was looking, rather sadly, at the other bed in the room.

“You should talk to Bahorel,” said Joly. He looked to Bossuet - seeing a nod, he went on. “He is always very glad to help get someone out of jail.”

At that, Bossuet laughed, and that brought Guillaume’s attention back to the conversation.

“In that case I will ask,” he replied. “I respect Bahorel very much.”

Joly met Bossuet’s eyes, and he knew that they would bring it up together with Bahorel later, preemptively.

“Would you tell us about what you got from my cousin?” he asked - it was a probably obvious change of subject, but Guillaume had seemed excited enough before to explain the topic even before anyone asked. “I do not know much about the work of the Polytechniciens,” he added.

Just as he had hoped, Guillaume’s eyes shone, and he leaned forward on the bed in abrupt change of mood. Joly felt Bossuet’s hand patting his thigh, and he smiled.

“I should love to!” Guillaume said, his voice now very bright. He picked up the pamphlet he had set beside him on the bed and held it up. Now, Joly could see, it was not a map, but a drawing of the compartments  inside of a - something.

“You see,” he went on, “when Joly - er, François - came to visit Paris last August, he wanted some mechanical advice. Now, I fancy myself an accomplished engineer, and I have learned plenty on gunsmithing, but without seeing the rifles in question…”

And he went on, telling the story with animated gesture and plenty of detail - Joly had not known the extent of his cousin’s political involvement in Paris, but suddenly he was learning very much about it, and all at once. There was a clear reason that Guillaume was in the Polytechnique, and his enthusiasm on the subject was exceeded only by his enthusiasm about republican philosophy. (In a way, he reminded Joly of Combeferre, if Combeferre’s sole interest was in the application of firearms engineering to revolutionary conduct - and Joly thought, also, with a tinge of guilt, that if this friend Théodore was at all like Guillaume, an arrest would not be surprising.)

The discussion was fascinating, and it continued at length, spiralling into a discussion of Bossuet’s multiple attempts at law school and Joly’s medical studies, then their involvement in 1830 - which of course lead to a discussion of the overlap of the Society of the Friends of the ABC with Guillaume’s small group of very republican, very unconventional, borderline Romantic friends.

By the time they halted their conversation, as Guillaume remembered an engagement to attend to that evening, they had been talking for what felt like hours. A look at Bossuet’s pocketwatch confirmed it, and then they had to be off: they each bid Guillaume farewell, Théodore’s cat rubbed her head against Joly’s leg only to be briskly swept into Guillaume’s arms, and then they were back into the hallway.

There was a different portress at the door. She seemed to judge Joly’s lack of a hat as they stepped into the street, but he could not bring himself to mind.

They would be home soon, anyhow.

“Well!” exclaimed Bossuet, as they stepped into the street and saw that the sun was much lower than it had been when they entered, and the sky was dotted with clouds. “That was invigorating, Jolllly, wouldn’t you say?”

Joly slipped his arm into Bossuet’s.

“Yes,” he replied, matching their steps. “But, you were right, Bossuet - I am afraid my stomach cannot subsist on talk of revolutionary mathematicians alone.”

They had not eaten since breakfast; Bossuet had pointed this out shortly before checking his watch.

“We shall dine, then,” Bossuet returned, “after which we should return to your apartment. You will never forgive me if I convince you to stay out, and we are caught in the rain.”

To that, Joly had to reluctantly agree: though the clouds in the sky were few, they were dark. He had his left arm crossed with Bossuet’s; unable to take his pulse, he reached with his right hand into the breast pocket of his coat to retrieve his pocket mirror.

He had just stuck out his tongue when Bossuet began to laugh.

“Oho! And here, I had begun to think you had left that ritual in Midi!” he said, as he pulled Joly beneath the awning of a familiar café.

As he did not quite know how to respond to such an accusation, he stood still, finished evaluating the state of his mouth, and then very purposefully poked his tongue in Bossuet's direction.


	4. Chapter 4

It turned out not to rain after all, but Joly and Lesgle returned to the flat after their early supper nonetheless: their day had been long, and Joly especially knew that he would benefit from turning in sooner rather than later.

He left the window of his bedchamber open just slightly, to allow for the circulation of fresh air, and - after they had washed and changed into their nightshirts, unlike the day before - he and Bossuet settled into bed.

“I am glad,” Joly said, as he settled with his head in Bossuet’s lap, “to have shared your company today, my friend.”

The chuckle he heard in response was warm and familiar; Joly smiled contentedly and closed his eyes, grateful as Bossuet began to twirl his fingers in his hair. The quilt covered them loosely, but the room was warm enough that Joly did not fear a chill. Besides, when he shared a bed with Bossuet, the only thing he generally needed to worry about was being forced off of it - the man radiated heat all night.

“You have said as such three times in the span of twenty minutes, Jolllly,” replied Bossuet as he brushed back the front of Joly’s hair, then scratched the crown of his head. “I myself am glad you did not desert me for the cat.”

It was a very pretty cat, and a very kind cat, but it did not compare to an Eagle of Meaux.

Joly expressed the thought aloud, nudging his forehead against Bossuet’s palm, and he felt Bossuet’s laughter in his body just as he heard it audibly.

“Speaking of eagles, we should pay Combeferre’s nest a visit tomorrow. I am sure he would like to hear Guillaume’s thoughts on cannonry.” 

“Yes - and, Feuilly would like to know about what we heard from Jean-Édouard, I think. He did not say it, but I should have thought he was curious about Lyon, yesterday. And Prouvaire, too. He said something quite peculiar when I left for Privas.”

“Tell them of your whole trip, then - and if we find Prouvaire, we will find Bahorel, too, to see about a bail for that friend.”

“Eh - do you know what went on with Courfeyrac and Guillaume? About the party?”

“Ah-ah, Joly, it is not my story to tell.”

“Then I shall ask him -”

“ -while you are going about asking all these questions, you can see what Enjolras thinks about whatever that was regarding the arms manufacturing trade.”

“Will he have an opinion?”

“Oh, surely he will, if you catch him at the right moment.”

“Hm.”

“But I do not think Grantaire would care much for any of our activities today, I am afraid.”

“We shall tell him of our supper.”

“...touché.”

The day had been a successful one, as far as Joly was concerned - for though they did not meet all three of the men they had meant to, the two they had encountered were generous, and new, and each of them in their own way was very inspiring. They had more days to themselves to investigate the situation with the second, and Joly was confident that if he and Lesgle worked together, they would forge yet more friendships. To expand their social horizons was a worthy way to spend their time, at least until Joly had to return to medicine the following week. 

In the meantime, however, he would occupy himself with Bossuet, and with his friends: since learning of the cholera, he had had a strange suspicion that his spirits might be dampened in the coming weeks.

But still he knew, very truly, that with companionship, he could never stay melancholy for long.

Joly opened his eyes to see Lesgle peering fondly down at him; he reached up to touch the stubble on his chin, and then to touch his lips. He kept his fingers there for a moment, as though he were hushing him. 

Then the door to his bedchamber swung open with a great slam, and he jolted - he swung his arm; Bossuet’s elbow collided with his nose.

“Oh - you are  _ both  _ here!”

It was Musichetta.

She stood in the doorway in her usual grey-brown dress, her curls of hair framing her face beneath the brim her bonnet, unsmiling.  In her ungloved hand she held Joly’s apartment key.

“I thought you might be out,” she said softly, almost a stammer. “And I did not see a light beneath the door - oh, Joly, I came only to return this, as yesterday morning I - well, I neglected to, and I did not want you to think of me as -”

Even with the memory of their recent brusque encounter, Joly was happy to see her. He pushed himself up, just enough so that he could look her over more clearly, but he kept his hand resting on Bossuet’s leg.

“Well! I shall be going now,” continued Musichetta, as neither of them spoke in their shock at the interruption. She set the key on top of the desk and stepped backward. “Certainly I do not wish to intrude upon -”

“That is absurd,” Bossuet said finally, with a tone like he was commenting on particularly unremarkable weather. 

“Come here,” Joly added, and he did not make an effort to disguise the plea in his voice.

For a moment she was still, and then she began to untie the ribbons beneath her chin. “You have right to be ill-tempered, you know,” she said. “I promised you before you left I would not sulk in your absence, and I suppose that I broke my promise.”

She set her bonnet on the desk, too, beside the key, and then removed her other glove. Her hair, it seemed, had not been properly tied up - she shook her head, and all of it cascaded around her shoulders in waves.

Joly, now wholly upright, shifted closer to Bossuet, and patted the space in the bed beside him. 

And then she faltered. 

“What! I am willing to share,” said Bossuet, but he wrapped his arm around Joly’s shoulders. It was a usual joke, between the three of them, but Joly himself shook his head.

“I did not mean to be curt myself,” he told her, meeting her eyes. It looked as though she might have been tearful, recently, but even still she was just as pretty as always - perhaps the effect was only the glimmer of sunset. She blinked and lowered her gaze.

“It is only - I missed you very much,” she murmured, wringing her pale hands. “You did not come back when you said you would, but I kept on the lookout for you anyway. Your landlord is beginning to think me dissolute, I am sure, but his wife is quite kind, even if she does not understand. She had not heard a word from you, either, but then the next day you were here, and Joly, I was so worried -”

“But I missed you, too,” Joly protested, interrupting right when Musichetta’s voice cracked. “And I  _ was  _ late, even he -” (Joly bumped Lesgle’s shoulder) “- worried, and you know Lesgle, he does not  _ ever  _ worry. You see, ah, today was very busy, but I did not think you wanted me to visit, anyhow. Rather, I assumed after -”

They were interrupted by Bossuet groaning in what could only have been a release of built up exasperation. Joly and Musichetta both looked to him, even as Joly had to contort a bit to do so.

“It seems to me that there is a simple solution to our conundrum here,” he said, after they had waited a moment for his commentary. “And it is that you, Musichetta, join us tonight without any sulking, and that you, Joly, remember how to write a letter the next time you go home for nearly a month.”

That took care of it; they all laughed together, and Musichetta undressed to her chemise to crawl in bed beside them. 

Joly kissed her cheek once she had done so.

“In the morning I can tell you about my holiday, for it was very political,” he said, very seriously. “But I think that for now I should very much like to go to bed.”

“With your very favorite bedfellows,” added Bossuet, wiggling his eyebrows.

Musichetta giggled; she kissed Joly’s cheek, and then leaned across him to kiss Bossuet’s, too.

“And in the morning I shall listen to your stories, and then I shall tell  _ you  _ about the gossip of the milliner’s shop,” she returned. “And Lesgle will shave, I think.”

“He will not.” 

Bossuet extinguished the candle at his bedside with a laugh. The room was not quite dark, the sunset still shone in - but they all gathered under the covers regardless.

“I think he will,” he mused, “because he ought to try to look respectable, now that he has lost his only hat.”

“I do not think republicans are considered a respectable bunch,” Joly replied, taking Lesgle’s hand in his left and Musichetta’s in his right, and holding them at his chest. “But perhaps that is sound logic.”

He lay on his back in his customary position, nestled against his pillow, but with Bossuet stretched next to him on one side and Musichetta resting her head at his shoulder on the other.

Even, Joly thought, taking into consideration the stress of smuggling unknown articles and the fear of the riot and its context from that morning, the day had treated him well... and now, with his ideals strengthened by the bonds of new connections, with Bossuet and Musichetta close by, secure in his hopes, he could sleep looking forward to the weeks ahead.


End file.
